


Apologies Can't Fix This

by LadySlytherin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Suicide, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySlytherin/pseuds/LadySlytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is sorry. But can you forgive something that can’t be fixed? Draco’s POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apologies Can't Fix This

**Author's Note:**

> This is...weird. I wrote it in one sitting and I don't really have words for the strangeness of this one. First of it's kind that I've ever written.
> 
> Reviews are appreciated!
> 
> ~ Lady S.

It was meant to be a joke. It was supposed to be _funny_ , not serious. Not true. Not real. Because everyone knew how the story ended; even me. And _this?_ This isn’t even close. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Harry Potter would marry Ginny Weasley and have a brood of Gryffindor children and I would marry a girl hand-picked for what she’d bring to my family. It was all there, laid out in neat little rows, just ready and waiting for things to unfold perfectly right. And then, I played a joke. I’d heard people say that what Slytherins think of as humor isn’t actually funny, it’s just cruel. But I never understood what they meant. I do now.

 

It started so simply. Harry…Potter…Harry. _Harry_ , now; _Potter_ , then. Harry showed up at the Manor, just after Mother and I were cleared of all charges by the Ministry. He was returning my wand. I invited him in for tea. Why not? It’s the polite thing to do; the civilized thing. I didn’t _plan_ any of this. Does that make it better, or worse, that I never planned it? That it just happened?

 

I had the vial of Amortentia in my pocket…and his teacup was just there. He turned away to look at something – a painting on the wall or the gardens out the window, who knows – while I poured his tea and I added the potion. Why not? It would be funny, right? To see him fall for me. Not for long; just for a little while. And to see the embarrassment and horror on his face when I gave him the antidote. It would be hilarious. He turned back and gave me a tight smile.

 

“Thanks.” He picked up the tea and took a sip, a funny look crossing his face. I held my breath and waited, watching closely. His eyes locked on my face and went soft, his full lips curved upwards, and in a breathless voice he said. “Draco…”

 

And still, it was meant to be funny. Just a joke. I wasn’t supposed to become addicted to it; to the warm look in his eyes and the way he deferred to me. To the way he watched me as though terrified I would disappear. To the way he touched me as though I were the most precious thing in the world, but also as though he could never have enough of me. It wasn’t meant to go this far…

 

I was smart. I created a ‘back story’ for us. As he looked at me adoringly, I purred. “Harry, do you remember how we got together?” Harry looked confused for a moment, as his mind warred with the potion, and I added. “I could tell you about it. Then you’d never forget again, right?”

 

“Yes of course.” He assured me, nodding vigorously. “I don’t know how I’ve forgotten…I’m so sorry, Draco. You forgive me, don’t you?”

 

“Absolutely.” I gave him a slow, charming smile. “Drink your tea while I remind you, Harry.” He nodded again and drank more and I spun a story as fast as I could think of one. Which, being a Slytherin, was pretty fast. “Remember in 6th year, when you hit me with that curse in the bathroom?”

 

And Harry looked horrified and tears filled his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Draco! I never meant to hurt you, I swear it! I didn’t know what it did; I didn’t mean to…”

“I know.” I cut him off because his apology, complete with tears, made me feel uncomfortable for some reason. “But later that night, you came to visit me in the infirmary. Do you remember, Harry? How we talked all night and you fell in love with me? How we kept it a secret to keep me safe?”

 

“Of course,” Because Harry would forever agree with me, until given the antidote, no matter how untrue it was or how it hurt him. “Of course I remember, Draco. I’d do anything to keep you safe.”

 

“But we can tell your friends now, can’t we?” I cajoled him, still smiling charmingly. “It’s safe now, after all, so we don’t need to hide anymore.”

 

And he agreed, as I’d known he would. This, you see, was all part of the joke. Tell Granger and Weasley and it would horrify Harry that much more, wouldn’t it? And he was so eager; so very eager to tell them all about us. He Flooed them and demanded they come, right away, which they did. And he told them exactly what I’d told him. And that…that was when it started to get out of control.

 

“I had to keep him safe.” Harry explained apologetically as he pulled me into his arms, resting his cheek on my hair as though I were, indeed, his lover of over a year and a half. “I love him so much and I couldn’t let Voldemort hurt him. I wanted to tell you, but it just wasn’t safe.”

And as I watched Weasley’s face turn several shades of red and purple, Granger changed it all. She looked thoughtful and spoke slowly; carefully. “You _were_ so obsessed with him in 6 th year, Harry…I mean, I was actually a little suspicious until you started dating Ginny. And then, when Malfoy didn’t identify you to Bellatrix…I  mean, of _course_ he knew it was you and I really thought he’d confirm it but he _didn’t_ and I suppose it makes sense, now…but Ginny…Harry, Ginny…”

 

I tensed for a moment in Harry’s arms, because Granger wasn’t playing by the rules. This was supposed to be horrifying and impossible, not something she’d _suspected_. Because Harry did _not_ love me; not for real, anyway. Not for keeps. And then Weasley sputtered. “What was she, some kind of _cover?_ Harry, that’s my baby sister! How could you use her like that?”

 

“I’m sorry.” Harry said it softly, almost sheepishly, but he tightened his arms around me. “I’d have done anything to keep Draco safe. I was just so afraid of losing him. Can’t you understand that? I love him. I didn’t know how else to keep him safe.”

 

And Granger put a hand on Weasley’s arm and gave Harry a small smile. “Of course, Harry. We can see how much you love him, after all. And we’ll…we’ll do our best to give him a chance. And I can help you explain to Ginny, if you like.”

 

And just like that, everything was sideways. Because they left and Harry turned me around in his arms and I stared into those impossibly green eyes and he whispered. “I knew they’d understand. And now they know how much I love you and we don’t have to hide anymore.”

 

And then his lips were on mine and I couldn’t breathe because when Harry kissed me it was hot and desperate and all-consuming. I pulled back and just stared at him, panting, and he looked back as though I were the only thing in the world that mattered. And I thought…I thought, well, if Granger and Weasley could accept this…if they could believe it was real…then who was I really hurting? Who lost with this? If Harry _could_ have loved me – and if his friends believe it, then clearly he could have – then how could it be wrong to _let_ him love me?

 

So I didn’t give him the antidote. And I let him tell Ginny Weasley that he’d been using her at the end of 6th year, to cover for us. I stood there, snuggled protectively against Harry’s chest, as she cried and begged him to tell her this was all some cruel joke. And when she cornered me, two weeks later, and begged _me_ to release him from whatever I’d done to him, I just laughed and lied. “He was mine before he was ever yours, Weasley. Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.”

 

And if I saw the ghost of pain – smothered by Amortentia – in Harry’s eyes, whenever we saw Ginny or she was mentioned by his friends, then it was easy enough to ignore. Harry and I went on dates and the public ate it up. The Savior and the child forced to be a Death Eater; star-crossed lovers, finally able to be together. It was gold, in terms of headlines and news. Pure gold. _We_ were gold. And the first time we fell into bed together, I did the right thing. I was strong enough to do the right thing.

 

Harry spread his legs and begged me to take him. And if things had been real…if we’d ended up in his bed in some non-potion-involved way…I’d have taken him in a heartbeat. I was the natural top in our relationship, after all. But Harry wasn’t really _my_ Harry and I knew that, even then. I wasn’t deluded; I knew he wasn’t really mine. I knew I’d stolen every second of my time with him. But I told myself, it’s not rape if I don’t take him. It’s not rape if I’m the one bottoming. And even though it wasn’t natural for either of us, Harry ceded to my wishes.

 

And I told myself, he wasn’t losing anything; that I wasn’t hurting him. If he wasn’t really mine, it was okay because he _could have been,_ had things been different _._ And if he would never have chosen me for a lover, then it was okay so long as I didn’t top. And I loved him, didn’t I? I loved everything about him. I loved his green eyes and his messy hair and the way he laughed when I told a joke. I loved the way he wrapped himself around me and the way he blushed and how he looked when he was sleepy. So if I loved him, more than that silly Weasley girl ever could have, then he wasn’t _really_ losing anything.

 

And when Weasley and Granger got engaged and then married, I ignored the strange, confused, hurt looks that sometimes passed over Harry’s face. And when Ginny Weasley married Anthony Goldstein, who was an accountant for the Ministry, and Harry watched her walk up the aisle on Arthur Weasley’s arm to meet a man who wasn’t him, I pretended I didn’t see the anguish in those eyes, lurking under the Amortentia’s rose-tinted glow. But I felt guilty, because I _had_ stolen this from him. I had stolen Ginny Weasley, in her white dress, with her bouquet of roses (Would she have carried lilies to meet Harry?), and her smile full of love. I had stolen the life he would have had with her; stolen his marriage. And it ate at me, right up until we were watching Ginny’s first dance with her new husband, who was _not_ Harry Potter, like he should have been.

 

“I used to want this…” Harry murmured, looking confused again as the potion fogged over the things it needed to, in order to work. “Getting married. A wedding. I think…I wanted this once…”

 

And I knew I had to make it right; I had to give back this dream of his, that I’d stolen. So I took his hand and squeezed it and said quietly. “Well, if you ever want it again, you’d just need to ask. You know how much I love you, after all.”

 

And so, a month later, when Harry proposed, I told myself it was okay to say yes. To give him back this thing. Because if I married him, then he hadn’t lost anything by my actions. He would be a husband to someone who loved him, just like he’d wanted. And everyone said he’d never looked happier then when we said our vows. And didn’t the wedding photos show that? Wasn’t he just beaming at me as I met him at the altar? And didn’t he kiss me like I was his whole world, after we said ‘I do’? So how could any of that be wrong?

 

And we moved into a house together, because his loft was too small to suit me and the Manor gave Harry nightmares and we couldn’t live apart if we were _married_ , after all. And that was okay. I even let him pick the thing, didn’t I? A quaint little three-bedroom, with lots of windows and rustic charm, near enough to Granger and Weasley’s house that we had dinner together at least twice a week. Harry decorated the whole thing, in a hodgepodge of styles that made me cringe sometimes, but it was so _Harry_ that I loved it anyway. So I gave, so much. More than I took, surely. Or so I told myself.

 

And if he sometimes looked at Teddy – his godson and my cousin – as though his heart were breaking, then that was something else entirely. And didn’t I tell him we could take the boy in, if he wanted? Didn’t I offer to raise him? But Harry insisted that Aunt Andromeda and Teddy needed each other. And when Ginny and Goldstein had their first little brat, and then their second, which lined up with Granger and Weasley having a little girl (who they named Rose, of all things), I did my best to ignore the longing Harry clearly felt.

 

He had warned everyone, you see. About how the Dark Lord had been conceived under a love potion and what it had done to him; twisting him into the monster he was. And I couldn’t live with myself if I helped create someone like that; I just couldn’t. So how could I agree to the child he so desperately wanted, knowing what I knew? And I told myself, for several years, that Rose and – two years later – Hugo and Teddy and the various-and-sundry other Weasley children would be fine substitutes. That Harry would content himself with playing with the children of others. That he did not _need_ a child of his own.

 

But that didn’t last. Rose was four when it happened. Harry was looking at me desperately, begging me as though if I said no, it would kill him. “Please, Draco…” Tears were making those green eyes brighter and it hurt me to see him like that. “I’ll carry it, even. I don’t mind being pregnant, I promise. Just please…I’ve always wanted a family…”

 

“No.” I shook my head, because I had to, and the anger and frustration I was feeling soaked into my voice, making it cold and harsh. “No, Harry. I can’t. _We_ can’t. I’m sorry. I want to, you know that. I would _love_ to have a child with you. But we _can’t_. And don’t ask why. I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

And he turned from me, for the first time in all the years since I’d slipped that potion into his tea, and it broke my heart. “I’m sorry.” His voice was choked and miserable. “Please don’t hate me. Please. I swear I won’t ask again.”

 

Could it have been any worse? “I don’t hate you.” And I pulled my poor, hurt Gryffindor into my arms, soothingly petting his hair. “It’ll be okay, Harry. I just can’t give you a child. I’m sorry.”

 

When he fell asleep, the guilt kept me awake. I’m not a bad person. I may not be good in the same way Harry and Granger are, but I’m not _evil_. It’s like…like a candy bar in a store. Granger would never steal a candy bar, because she’s that good. She just wouldn’t do it. And me? Well, I’d steal it, but eventually the guilt would bother me enough that I’d find a way to pay for it. So maybe I drugged Harry…and maybe I stole his life…but I didn’t have to _keep_ stealing it. I could give it back. The rest of it, anyway. I _would_ give it back.

 

It took me a few weeks. Not to get the antidote; that was the matter of a few minutes to brew. But to find the courage to do this thing. And then I offered him the vial. “Drink this.” I told him softly.

 

“What is it?” He unstoppered it and sniffed, making a face. “You know I don’t like taking potions, Draco…”

 

“It’s so we can have a baby.” I whispered, and it was true, in a way. If Harry found some way to forgive me for all of this, I still wanted him. “If you still want one, that is. Drink it. And remember that I love you.”

 

And Harry smiled at me, like I’d just offered him everything he’d ever wanted, and drank the potion in one swallow. And then it happened. His face went blank and, for that single instant, we were back in my parents’ parlor and I’d poured him tea laced with Amortentia and he hadn’t yet sipped it. For that single instant, no crime had been committed. And then his face drained of all color. Memories flooded back; years of them. Everything I’d said and done; everything _he_ had said and done. Dating, sex, Ginny marrying someone else, us marrying each other, dinners with Granger and Weasley…all of it. And he turned grey, then greenish.

 

And everything in me wanted to run. How could I stay and face his hatred; his loathing? But I had been a coward for most of my life; I was done with that. I deserved his hatred, after all. I had earned this. He stared at me for long, silent moments, then turned and ran. I followed, as fast as I could, through our house, unsure where he was running to. The loo, as it turned out. He slammed the door behind himself, locking it quickly, and I listened through the wood as he was sick.

 

“I’m sorry!” I cried out from my side of the door. “Please forgive me…Harry, I’m _sorry!”_

 

More heaving, followed by sobs, and my own tears choked me. I collapsed to the floor, pressing one hand to the center of the door and wrapping the other around my ribs, as though holding myself together. “I never meant for this to happen…” I whispered it, but I knew he could hear me; he was listening for every word. “I love you, Harry. Please don’t hate me.”

 

“You drugged me!” His anguish was clear, even through the tears and the door between us. “Ginny…she married another man! You _raped_ me, Malfoy! Repeatedly. How can I not hate you?”

 

“I never topped…” The words were wrenched from my mouth before I could stop them; all of the excuses I’d told myself just flooded out. “I never topped, Harry. Not once, not even when you begged me to. And I married you, because you wanted that, remember? I bought us this house. I let you be an Auror. I have dinner with your friends. Because _I love you_.”

 

There was the sound of more vomiting, then Harry’s voice, cracked and broken. “That’s sick, Malfoy. That’s not _love._ Love is…love isn’t drugging someone! It isn’t pretending they love you back when you know it’s not true! If you loved me, you’d have let me go!”

 

“But I have…” I whispered, closing my eyes and resting my forehead against the door. “I have let you go, Harry, don’t you see? I _do_ love you…”

 

“Too little, too late.” Harry whispered back and I hated how he sounded; defeated, rather than angry. I could have born his anger. This was much, much worse.

 

“I’m sorry.” Maybe if I said that enough, he’d believe me. “Please, can’t we just talk about this? Can’t you just give me a chance?”

 

There was a pause; one long enough to give me hope. Then he said a single word that made me frantic. It snaked through the door and into my heart, chilling me. _“Sectumsempra.”_

 

I slammed into the door repeatedly, screaming. Then, remembering my wand, I blasted the stupid thing off, into little pieces. It didn’t make a difference. He must have pointed his wand right at his throat; clever, in its own, twisted way. Even if I’d gotten the door open right away, it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d have been dead almost as soon as he finished the spell.

 

And I was left to explain to all his friends why my supposedly-happy husband had killed himself. And I couldn’t tell the truth; I’m too much of a coward for _that_. The funny thing is, I know now why he did it and it’s a good reason, too. And not the one you’re probably thinking of. Harry was so strong; I think he could have handled practically anything. Me drugging him; us being married; losing Ginny…all of that. He could have held strong against it all, because he was built that way.

 

But apparently Harry was more like me than I’d ever realized. He drugged me, too. During the weeks it took me to gather my courage and free him, Harry drugged me. That was why he’d been so happy when I offered him the baby; he thought I wouldn’t be angry when I found out what he’d done. When I found out about the potion he’d slipped into my morning coffee a few days after our fight and what it had done; what it had helped us to create. And when I freed him and he realized…well, I can’t blame him for being too weak to face it. I certainly am.

 

So you see, I couldn’t tell his friends the truth, even if I _was_ that brave. Because they’d demand that I kill her. The daughter Harry gave me, while still under the influence of Amortentia. And I know what she’ll be; I’m not stupid, you know. I know why Harry killed himself, rather than face the fact that he had unintentionally fathered the next Voldemort. And it’s why I’ll be joining him, as soon as she’s born. I can’t kill her, you see. She’s all that’s left of Harry. Of _my_ Harry; the one who loved me back.

 

But I can’t face her, either.

 

Maybe, if I see him again, after I’m dead and gone…maybe he’ll finally forgive me. But I don’t think so. I can’t forgive me, after all. Why should he?


End file.
